The Persistence Of This Illusion
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: John deals with the death of a family member and the fall out.  Rated for character death, not Sherlock, so don't panic.  Set after "A Lifetime For Music".  John/Sherlock established relationship & slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is set shortly after "A Lifetime For Music". Rated for character death (not Sherlock, so no panicking, but if you're read "Time Well Spent", you already know that), and for anything else that comes under the M rating.

* * *

They were down in a tube tunnel, which was unpleasantly warm and damp, droplets of water falling from pipes above their heads, although Sherlock didn't seem to notice. He was buzzing, darting about the crime scene, noting things that should have been impossible to see without a torch of his own, as John examined the body, trying to get some sense of what had happened to it.

Sherlock was not suited up, of course, and John was. He ignored his husband's constant yammering about whatever it was this second that was flashing through his mind, and looked at the cuts on the victim's chest and torso. Not knife wounds, no. To narrow and precise for that. Scalpel marks. And straight, sure, consistent.

"Surgeon," he said, interrupting Sherlock's monologue about fungi on the walls and under the victim's nails. Killed in the tunnels, but not this tunnel, since there wasn't near enough blood for the wounds. The victim had been sliced with the Y-pattern used in autopsies, but the body hadn't been actually opened up. Even so, this would result in the loss of a great deal of blood.

"_Dental_ surgeon, my dear Watson," Sherlock corrected, not even losing his stride. "Note the smell."

That was the sum total of Sherlock's pet names for John, and he only used it on cases. John was never sure if it was an affectation, or if Sherlock was really establishing some personal connection to John in a professional setting. He liked to think it was the latter, so he never asked in case he got the answer he didn't want.

John leaned in and sniffed. Yes, Sherlock was right. It smelled of a dentist's office, faintly, and John wondered how much time their mystery dentist-murderer spent at work that this scent carried over to the body.

"Maybe the victim was the dentist," the lead forensics expert, Bailey, suggested. John was glad it wasn't Anderson; not that Sherlock thought any more of Bailey's abilities, even though this was the first time they'd worked with the man, but at least the constant antagonism wasn't in the air.

"Not with those teeth," Sherlock replied in his off-handed, arrogant way, and John exchanged a sympathetic look with Bailey. It was hard to work with Sherlock when one knew him, even when one was married to him. Working for him the first time must be like being hit by a tornado. John tried to remember their first case, but he was so used to Sherlock by now it was difficult to recall exactly what it had been like.

"What's wrong with his teeth?" John asked.

"Upper right canine is four to five degrees crooked from the midline, and he has some faint discolouration on his lower central incisors, which he would have had corrected had he been a dentist."

John checked.

This was, of course, correct.

Bailey gave him a glance.

"He noticed that?" he hissed. John repressed a smile.

"Oh, yes," he replied. He pushed himself to his feet, turning away from the body. Lestrade was following Sherlock's excited movements with his eyes, waiting with resigned patience for some additional information.

"Now all we must do is find a dentist who has a penchant for murdering people with scalpels," he said, as if this were a simple prospect. John rolled his eyes, but Sherlock didn't deign to pay attention to him. "Most likely a man, but could be a tall or exceptionally strong woman." After the Sandford case, Sherlock was more conscientious about including women in his consideration of mass murderers. John was cheered by this progress – even though none of the serial killers they'd tracked in that time had actually been women. Several of the murderers who killed out of passion had been, of course. This wasn't unexpected or abnormal.

"And you can find this for me, can you?" Lestrade asked.

"To be sure," Sherlock replied easily and John suppressed another eye roll.

"Can we move the body?" Lestrade continued.

Sherlock cast a look at John.

"John?" he asked. John felt somewhat bad for Bailey; this was after all, his job, but he met the other man's eyes, and Bailey nodded. They'd been down there for long enough by John's standards, and John was getting hot and itchy in his suit, so he was glad when Bailey agreed.

"Yes, we're fine here," he said. He'd examine the body more at St. Bart's, and he knew Sherlock would probably "assist" him, wanting to get as many details from it as possible. John was fairly sure Sherlock would even pin down in which tunnel the victim had been killed, and where the poor bastard's clothes were now, provided they hadn't been burnt. Even then, he'd probably find the pile of ashes.

"Do you need anything else down here, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

"Finished ages ago," the consulting detective replied, to which Lestrade only rolled his eyes.

"Let's pack it up," he sighed, gesturing to the forensics team and officers around him. John assisted with getting the body into a body bag, but didn't volunteer to help bring it to the surface. He was dying to get out of the tunnel and his suit, so he followed Lestrade up into the March air, Sherlock in tow, emerging onto a taped-off area of a busy London street. Other police officers were milling around, keeping the growing crowds at by, and John wondered what the fascination was. It wasn't as though there was anything to see. The body had been discovered in the tunnel by a tube employee doing routine electrical maintenance; although it had not been down there long, maybe overnight at best. It had stayed down there until now, so only the police coming and going were visible. And, of course, Sherlock's whirlwind arrival on the scene, dragging John behind him as though John was caught in the crosswind, which, he would admit, was sometimes what it felt like.

He stripped out of his suit gratefully, noting Sherlock watching appreciatively, as if he was actually stripping down altogether. He smirked at his husband, who raised an eyebrow, all sorts of promises in his expression. He wondered if anyone else noticed this. Sherlock had a nearly insatiable libido, which would have come as a surprise to most people, and had to John, in the beginning, since Sherlock had been so insistent on being married to his work. Not that John minded Sherlock's enthusiasm though, because he felt the same.

"Mind on the job, Holmes," he muttered when Sherlock stepped over to him as John finished divesting of the suit and plunged it into a trash bin near one of the forensics van that was set up for that purpose.

"My mind is always on the job, John," he replied easily, hands in his pockets. "It's just a matter of the nature of said job."

"Well, how about this job?" John asked, grinning.

"I don't know, I really don't," Sherlock said. "You wore that jumper just to distract me. It won't work."

"I wore this because it's still cold, and I had my jacket on before we went down," John pointed out. Sherlock was about to reply when John's mobile, in his jeans pocket, rang.

"You were saying about mind on the job, John?" Sherlock asked but John rolled his eyes, making a dismissive gesture, pulling out his phone and answering it without checking the number. Sherlock wandered away as John refocused his attention on the caller.

"Yes, John Watson," he answered.

"John?" came a somewhat unsteady voice from the other end. John bit his lip against a groan, putting his hand on his forehead. He saw Sherlock pause on his way to talk to Lestrade again, casting a questioning glance at him, but John waved him away, shaking his head.

"What is it, Harry?" he sighed. Checked his watch. It had just gone on noon. She sounded drunk. There was no reply and John frowned. "Harry? What do you want?"

He was annoyed at this interruption, not least because it came from his alcoholic sister. She had been doing so well for so long, going to rehab the day after John and Sherlock married, but before last Christmas, she'd fallen off the wagon again and hadn't gone back to treatment. She'd relapsed a couple of times before, but had always sought help immediately afterwards, and John knew how frequent relapses were for addicts. In fact, it surprised him that Sherlock never actually smoked, especially when he was particularly stressed. But then, when Sherlock set his mind to something, he usually bent the universe to his will.

"Harry, where the hell are you? How much have you had to drink?"

Instead of replying, she launched into a diatribe about how John treated her, how Sherlock treated her – as if she actually ever spoke to or saw John's husband – how the world treated her, how their parents had loved him more, had always been so proud of him for being a doctor, for going off to serve his country in Afghanistan, how she was so tired of being the useless sister of a war hero. John closed his eyes, feeling himself war between anger and weariness. Harry berated him for never visiting, although he did call her often to ask if he could see her, or at least he had until she'd started drinking again.

"Harry, I'm going to hang up," he said. "Call me again when you're sober. If that ever happens. I don't need to put up with this."

She screamed something about him not loving her, which John felt wasn't fair – he did love her, he just didn't like her when she was drunk.

"For Christ's sake, Harry, shut the hell up for once," he snapped. "Go back to rehab and then I'll talk to you. If you want to feel all petulant, you go right ahead, but I'm busy right now."

She cursed colourfully at him and John bit down on a retort of his own.

Then she screamed.

It had a different harmonic.

"Harry?" John demanded. "Harry?"

She cursed again, not at him, then John heard something on the other end of the line, a horn blaring, then another. Harry shrieked, cursing wildly, and John tightened his grip on the phone. The sounds around him suddenly died away, so he was standing in isolation, the other officers, the cars, the crowd, even Sherlock forgotten and vanished.

"Harry!" John snapped.

"Oh my God! Fuck!" she swore and then John heard the sound of crumpling metal and breaking glass. His eyes flickered, as if he were trying to see the situation himself, to get a visual based on the sounds. How many cars? Where was she?

"Harry!" he cried. "Harry!"

Another horn, more screams, more glass breaking. John jerked the phone away from his ear a moment, staring at it in panic, then pulled it back.

"Harry! Harry, dammit, pick up your phone! Harry!"

He could still hear something on the other end of the line, but it was faint, as if it wasn't coming from her, or whatever vehicle she'd been in. John's heart did double time; this was too close to home, and his eyes sought out Sherlock's form. Sherlock, talking to Lestrade. The image confused him a moment, as his brain sought to differentiate Sherlock's crash from this one, to keep them from superimposing on one another.

"Harry!" John snapped again. "For God's sake, Harry, answer me!"

As though Sherlock had heard him across the wide expanse of street that separated them, or as if he sensed John looking at him, he glanced over, and his grey eyes and normally detached expression were immediately filled with concern. John saw him gesture at Lestrade and begin striding over, his long legs closing the distance between them quickly.

"Harry!" John shouted into the phone. "Dammit! Harry! Answer me!"

He felt Sherlock's hands curl around his upper arms, supporting him, and John's weight gave into them, as if his legs had just been waiting for permission to weaken.

"John," Sherlock said, but his voice sounded far away, unimportant. "John. What is it?"

"Harry!" John yelled again. "Goddammit! Pick up the bloody phone!"

"John!" Sherlock snapped.

"John, what's happened?" Lestrade asked. John tried his sister's name again, then looked up, almost surprised by the presence of the two other men watching him with concern, Sherlock's personal and deep, Lestrade's more professional.

"I don't know," John gasped, lying. He looked at his phone, as if it would give him some answers. "Greg, can you – can you find out about a – crash? Just now?" He bit his lip, wanting it not to be true, and could feel himself starting to shake. Sherlock's hands tightened on his arms. "I think my sister – I think my sister was just in an accident. I heard-" he stopped, unable to voice what he'd heard.

Lestrade stared at him only the briefest of moments, then nodded curtly.

"Yes, of course," he said, glancing at Sherlock, the two of them exchanging a look over John's head, which John ignored. "Come with me."

Carefully, Sherlock took the mobile from John's fist.

"No! No, no," John protested, trying to get it back. Sherlock pocketed it, then put a hand on John's cheek, far more intimacy than he usually displayed at crime scenes, or at least at crime scenes when they were out in public like this, if only to keep the police off of their case. He'd kissed John at crime scenes before, but that was usually in celebration of figuring something out, and had nothing to do with John's desires.

"Come on," Sherlock said gently.

"Give me back my phone!" John demanded, half pleading, half ordering.

"Come on," Sherlock repeated.

"Dammit, Sherlock!" John said, then heard the sob threatening to break in his voice. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's shoulders, effectively pinning John against him and John found he couldn't break away, he had no will to.

"Come with me," Sherlock said again. "We'll find out what happened."

John suddenly didn't want to know, and tried to pull away. Sherlock held him fast and John felt a moment of panic – he had to get out of this. But Sherlock had him moving, walking slowly but surely to the nearest patrol car, where Lestrade was in the front seat, talking on the radio. The DI turned toward them as they approached, and John knew it didn't matter what he wanted or didn't want to know. The expression on Lestrade's face told him he was going to find out, one way or the other.


	2. Chapter 2

The ride to the hospital felt interminable. Sherlock had buckled himself into the middle seat, arms around John, who alternated between staring dully at the back of the seat in front of him and having to focus on his breathing, to keep himself from panicking. It felt worse going through it a second time, since he knew what to expect, at least emotionally. Only the fact that Sherlock was sitting there beside him kept him somewhat grounded. He gripped one of Sherlock's hands so hard it must have hurt, but Sherlock said nothing, pressing his lips against John's temple, keeping them there the whole way. For Sherlock, this was an unheard of level of public affection. John barely noticed.

He scrambled out as soon as the car stopped at the hospital, Sherlock hurrying after him, Lestrade behind them as John ran in through the emergency room doors, casting a quick and expert eye around him. Wherever Harry was, she either wasn't here yet or was already in surgery. Sherlock pulled John back as Lestrade strode past them, taking charge of the situation, flashing his police badge, demanding information. The nurse he'd waylaid hurried off to get a doctor and John began heading for the emergency OR instinctively, shaking off Sherlock's grip, refusing to be stopped. Behind him, he heard Lestrade curse at him, but ignored him. Sherlock caught John by the hips right outside the main OR doors, and that did stop John up, if only because the contact was fairly intimate, the sensation sending a wave of shock down John's legs. Which was what Sherlock had been going for.

"You don't know if she's even in there," Sherlock said in a low voice. "Nor what surgery she's in. Don't risk it."

For a moment, John stared at him, then nodded once, abruptly, letting out a brief sigh. Sherlock bundled his arms around John and John allowed himself to be pressed into his husband's chest, feeling the slightly rapid beat of Sherlock's heart. For a moment, he felt all right, as if Sherlock could ward off reality for him.

Lestrade joined them and a moment later, the nurse he'd harried found them, telling them that Harry was there and in emergency surgery. She offered to show them to a waiting room, but John didn't know if he could sit still right now, or be around strangers. Could Sherlock decide for him? He felt unable to do so himself.

Before they were allowed to consider it, though, the surgery doors clicked open and a surgeon stepped out, still in full scrubs, mask pulled down to reveal his bearded face, gloved hands and suited chest covered in blood. He looked exhausted, brown eyes weary, and met John's eyes without question.

"John Watson?" he asked. John felt Sherlock's arms tighten around him, and he managed to nod, his mind running a loop track of _no, no, no, no._

"I'm sorry," the surgeon said and Sherlock caught John as he doubled over, silently, unable to even make a small noise. _Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. _He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it not to be true.

"What happened?" Lestrade asked. John pressed his fists into his eyes, Sherlock's arms still holding him up. He didn't want to know.

"Her injuries were too severe," the surgeon was saying. "She had a bleed in her brain-"

"Stop, please, stop," John managed. "Stop. I can't. I'm a doctor."

The surgeon stopped abruptly and John felt as if he were able to take a breath. He could still hear Harry swearing at him over the phone, and his own angry replies.

"You need to sit down," the surgeon said firmly. John shook his head, but Sherlock pulled him up and led him away to the nearest set of chairs, settling John into one, crouching in front of him, hands cupping John's face. John could barely see his husband's eyes, but curled his hands over Sherlock's, breathing hard. They were far enough away that he could hear Lestrade talking to the surgeon again, but not their words, for which he was grateful. A moment later, more voices joined the conversation and John looked up. Three police officers, their radios yammering pointlessly at their collars, all of them talking to the DI in hushed voices.

He stood up and was striding back toward the surgeon before Sherlock could stop him.

"I need to see her," he demanded.

The man stared at him a moment.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he said. "She's not in good shape."

"She's bloody dead!" John yelled and felt Sherlock's hands on his shoulders but shook them off, drawing a deep breath. "I don't care. I was an army doctor in Afghanistan. I've seen it. I need to see _her._"

_Don't you understand?_ he wanted to scream. _I was talking to her when she crashed!_

The surgeon glanced at Sherlock, as if this were his decision. John felt inexplicably angry, as though they had decided he couldn't make this choice on his own. He felt nauseous, too, and wondered if he could stay on his feet.

"All right," the surgeon agreed reluctantly and John felt a rush of relief, followed quickly a stab of fear. No, he couldn't do this. No, he had to. "You're family, too?" the surgeon asked, looking back at Sherlock.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"Then I need you to come as well." As if John couldn't do it on his own. He _couldn't_ do it on his own. Sherlock put a hand lightly on John's back, guiding him forward to follow the surgeon. Behind them, Lestrade was talking to his officers, but John couldn't follow what they were saying. It was so irrelevant. Why couldn't they just shut up, or at least leave?

The OR suite was silent, lights outside doors indicating which rooms were in use. Those currently occupied had blinds drawn across their windows as well. A nurse strode past them, grim and silent, blood on her clothing and John faltered, only Sherlock's hand on his back keeping him anchored. The surgeon stopped outside an operating room, knocking on the window.

"No, I need to go inside," John insisted.

"John," Sherlock warned but John ignored him. The surgeon gave him another glance, which John returned with a hard look. It wouldn't matter if he wasn't sterilized and suited up.

Harry was dead.

The thought made him want to throw up. He swallowed hard on that, willing his body to cooperate.

"All right," the surgeon agreed reluctantly. One last moment with a beloved family member. This wasn't uncalled for. But John hadn't really liked Harry. Not a beloved sister. A sister who caused him pain, disappointed him, wore him down.

He was suddenly angry and wanted to turn back, to forget about her, to go home and be done with it. She was well and truly out of his life – shouldn't he be relieved? Another stab of nausea. No, no, he had to do this. She'd still been his sister, despite it all, despite the disappointment, the hurt, the anger.

The surgeon let them inside, looking displeased. There were still two nurses there, working on Harry – on the body – who looked up when they entered, then pulled down their masks and left silently, giving him sympathetic looks on the way past.

John didn't even see them.

Sherlock had looked better following his crash, but only because he'd still been alive.

If John hadn't known it was Harry, he wouldn't have believed it. Nothing was recognizable. Everything was covered with blood, with bruises, with gashes. There was still a tube down her throat. She was naked, but the nurses had at least covered her with a blanket, so all John could see where her shoulders and face. But one shoulder was bent too far back against the bed, collarbone broken. Her face was torn up, but the wounds weren't bleeding, not anymore. Her hair was a tangled mess of dried blood in clumps. She looked fake, like a prop for a movie. For one of those ghastly medical shows that always got everything wrong.

_This_ was clearly wrong. No one could look so injured and still be alive.

She wasn't alive, he reminded himself.

He caught himself on the wall and felt Sherlock's hands under his shoulders, holding him up.

"All right, enough," Sherlock said. "We're going."

"No," John managed. "No. No, no."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, steering him out of the OR and back down the hall, out the main doors, John struggling each step of the way but uncertain about what he was struggling against. He didn't want to be in there anymore, to look at what was left of his sister, to be reminded of what Sherlock had looked like just over two years ago in a similar situation.

He doubled over when they got back into the main corridor, pressing his hands over his face, trying to fight down the urge to vomit. His legs gave out and he sank to the floor, Sherlock going with him. In the back of his mind, he was surprised the great consulting detective would do this, would consent to sitting on the floor of a hospital corridor, holding him gently.

The police were still there, and Lestrade.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing in a deep breath, holding it until he felt he might burst, then exhaling. He did it again, then again, one of Sherlock's hands rubbing slow circles across his back.

"What happened?" he finally managed.

There was a hesitation.

John raised his head, brown eyes blazing.

"Greg, what the hell happened?" he demanded. The officers exchanged glances, uncertain.

"This isn't really the best-" Lestrade started.

"It doesn't bloody matter where we are!" John exploded. Yes, there were other people there, nurses, doctors, orderlies, some people walking by as they waited for someone, but didn't seem concerned. John wanted to snarl at them. _Not waiting for someone to die, are you?_ he wanted to shout, but kept it down with effort. He pushed himself to his feet and Sherlock stood again as well.

What was Sherlock, his shadow? John was momentarily unreasonably angry, wanting Sherlock to go away, wanting to be left alone, but the next second, that drained away and he leaned against his husband, aware of the familiar smell, the faint feeling of his heart beating, the very present feel of his body. John closed his eyes.

"Please just tell me," he said quietly. "I know she was drunk."

Lestrade sighed.

"She was," he said. "Her blood alcohol content was 0.19."

John squeezed his eyes shut tighter. So high. Too high. Even for a seasoned alcoholic.

"What did –" he started. "She doesn't – didn't have a car."

"From what we can tell, she'd borrowed one from a friend."

What kind of friend lent a drunk a car? Another drunk? John didn't know. Rage flared through him – who would be so stupid? Why was Harry so stupid? What the hell had she been thinking? He wanted to storm back in and yell at her – but she was dead. What good would it do?

He tried to focus on breathing.

"What did she hit?" he managed through clenched teeth. A post. A building. A parked car. Something, anything, that hadn't been someone else.

"Two other cars," Lestrade said and John jerked, wanting to pull away from the words, make them not true.

"How many people?" he demanded, eyes still screwed shut.

"John-"

"How many people?" John demanded, eyes flying open, blazing, but Sherlock held him back almost effortlessly. Since when had Sherlock become so strong? How did he know John so well that he could do this without thinking, without trying?

"Two in one car, one in another," Lestrade said with weariness John had never heard before. "They're all still in surgery."

That was good news.

Good news? _Good news_? John was appalled at himself, how could he think that? So what if they weren't dead yet, so what if they were still in surgery? Harry had hit three people with a borrowed car from a stupid friend. He closed his eyes again, jaw tight, muscles in his neck working. He was going to kill her.

But she was already dead.

He clenched his jaw tighter.

"We'll need to talk to you," Lestrade said carefully. "You were speaking to her right before the crash."

_No_, John managed to think.

"Not right now," Sherlock said, voice firm. Gratitude hit John so hard he felt weak, his legs threatening to give out.

_Take me home, _he thought. _Take me home. I just want to go home._

"The sooner the better," Lestrade said.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock replied in a voice that brooked no argument. There was a moment of silence.

"All right," Lestrade said gently and John let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Then his eyes flew open again.

He'd have to call his mother. And Clara. She deserved to know.

He said this out loud.

"Let us do the notification, John," Lestrade replied, his expression sympathetic.

"She's my mother," John said. "I have to be the one-"

Lestrade held up a hand, expression firm, but not unfeeling.

"And this is our job," he replied. "Let us do it. It's easier."

Easier? Was there any way this could be easy? What would his mother think about the police calling her, not her son? John couldn't tell. Would she be angry? Would she notice?

Could he have done something to stop this?

The thought made him dizzy.

But what? Harry drank by her own choice, not John's. Or as a result of her addiction.

He could have tried harder to get her to go back to rehab.

But would it have mattered? If she hadn't wanted to go, she wouldn't have gone. She hadn't gone.

But she had put three people in the hospital. No idea if they would survive.

He wanted to throw up again.

"I'll get a car to take you home," Lestrade said. John felt Sherlock's arm circle his back, beneath his shoulders, supporting him, making it possible to stand. He wondered if he would be able to walk, though, if he could leave this hospital, move past other people whose sisters hadn't just died, go outside into the fresh air and pale spring sun that kept shining as if nothing had changed.

"Come on, John, let's go home," Sherlock whispered, his lips warm against John's ear.

John managed to nod. He suddenly wanted to leave, not to be here ever again, to go home where he could shut everything away that wasn't Sherlock, forget it had happened, not talk to anyone, not face the rest of the world.

The path between the hospital and their flat seemed endless.

But a police car would take them. No questions, no banter, no fares. Nothing. Just them. The rest of the world, held at bay.

"Okay," he managed. "Okay."


	3. Chapter 3

John was sitting on the couch.

He had some vague memory of Sherlock taking off his coat and shoes and settling him there, but the ride home seemed lost to him. He stared at his hands, the wedding ring gleaming in the afternoon light, as if reminding him that there was something still in his life.

Then he realized Sherlock was standing in front of him, one arm outstretched, his mobile in his hand, the phone pressed up against John's ear. John wondered how long he'd been standing like that. Was John supposed to call someone? It made no sense. He blinked slowly, trying to refocus.

"John," a voice said on the other end of the line and he closed his eyes, breathing out a sigh of relief. He knew this person. He nodded, then realized she couldn't see him.

"Tee," he replied, and his voice sounded strange to him, like it was coming from someone else's throat, someone who could still speak.

"Johnny, I'm so sorry," she said. That damnable nickname, which irritated him but which he did not really hate, because it was given in love, in friendship, a reminder of good times, and bad ones, of dependability, reliability, consistency. Something Harry had never given him.

He felt cold, thinking about Harry. He tried not to, and failed.

"Thanks," he managed.

"Do you need me to come over?" Tricia enquired.

John shook his head. Again, she could not see that.

"No, no, please don't. I can't right now."

"All right." Accepting. Understanding. John felt a wave of relief. He couldn't deal with how anyone else might feel right now. "I'll see you later. Take care."

He nodded again, opening his eyes, and Sherlock took the phone away, saying something John didn't care about, then hanging up. Had she called? That was Sherlock's phone in his hand.

Had _he_ actually called her? The idea that Sherlock had thought of this astonished him for a moment, then he dropped his head into one palm, shuddering. Should he feel guilty that he was grateful that it wasn't the woman who may as well have been his sister who had died? Harry had never been a good sister. Should it matter? She was dead regardless.

What was he supposed to be feeling? He only felt numb.

Weight on the couch beside him told him that Sherlock had sat down. A moment later, John was drawn toward his husband and back, so they leaned against the cushions. John dropped his head back, closing his eyes again. Sherlock's hand was in his hair, and John could feel the coolness of his wedding ring against his own scalp. Like an anchor.

"What do you need?" Sherlock asked.

_I need to throw up_, John thought. No, he didn't, not really, not yet, but he wanted to. Maybe then he'd feel better, if he could get some of this numbness, this confusion, out of his body.

He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. His mother hadn't called yet. He hoped she wouldn't. Or had Sherlock talked to her? Now he couldn't remember. Where was his phone anyway? Sherlock had taken it away at the scene and not returned it. That felt like years ago now. He thought he should ask for it back, but then realized he didn't care.

He needed to eat, to sleep, practical things like that. Those were not the things he wanted to do.

"I want to get blind stinking drunk," he replied.

There was a pause, and John wondered if he'd said that, or just thought it.

"We can do that," Sherlock replied.

John shook his head.

"No, I can't," he replied. He raised his head, looking at his husband a moment, then leaned forward again, pressing his fist against his forehead. "My sister just died driving drunk. I can't."

Sherlock's hand rested on his back, rubbing slow circles. Second time he'd done that today, John noted dully.

"John, you are not an alcoholic. Nor do you own a car, or even have access to one. And I would never let you drive after drinking. If you want to get drunk right now, I think you are entitled to do so."

"I know I'm not an alcoholic," John shot back, then pressed his hands to his lips. "Look, Sherlock, I know it's easy for you to evaluate all of this logically-"

"No," Sherlock said, cutting him off.

John blinked, glancing back over his shoulder.

"What?" he asked.

"No, John, this is not easy for me. Why would it be easy for me to watch you in pain?"

John stared at his husband for a long moment, then it hit him out of nowhere and he folded on himself, biting his lip, but tears streamed from his eyes, tracing hot pathways down his cheeks and he had to let go, gasping for air. Without a word, Sherlock gathered him up, so that John was half curled against his chest, half against his lap.

He hated that he couldn't stop. It was ridiculous to feel ashamed, but he did. He didn't want to be curled up like this, sobbing, because it hurt, hurt his lungs, hurt his left shoulder, hurt his back, hurt inside, where he couldn't reach to stop the pain. He wanted Sherlock not to see this, but also not to leave, because he couldn't do this on his own, couldn't be like this, with this stabbing pain in his chest that wouldn't ease, without his husband. Couldn't be without a sociopath cradling him, it was absolutely preposterous, but Sherlock wasn't saying anything, just holding him, lips pressed against John's temple, one hand rubbing John's arm in a rhythmic motion that gave John some attachment, something that didn't feel terrible.

He hadn't felt this kind of relentless hurt since Sherlock had been in the hospital, but had kept it largely at bay because Sherlock had needed him.

Now there was nothing he could use to push it back. No one needed him. He had no weapons with which to fight this.

The last words he'd said to Harry had been in anger. And hers to him had been the same. The last thing he'd ever heard her say was a curse, not at him, at the situation, but he'd been there, if not in person, with her drunk behind the wheel of a car, slamming into two other vehicles.

He wanted to go home.

He _was_ at home.

He wanted home not to be this, to be something different, to be away from the anguish. In the space of a heartbeat, he wanted Sherlock to stop touching him, then never to stop. He wanted to be alone, then didn't want to be alone.

He wanted to stop crying.

He did, eventually, running out of energy, feeling like he'd been beaten, or run over by a truck, or dropped from an aeroplane. And Sherlock was still there, murmuring to him words that John didn't understand, that didn't actually matter, because it was the connection his voice was making that was important. John buried his face against Sherlock's legs, sore and exhausted, Sherlock still stroking his arm. He drifted off for awhile, hazy dreams mixed with the sound of Sherlock's voice, with the feel of his body against John's.

He wanted to throw up again, but it was his mind that wanted this, not his body.

He came back, laying still for a long moment, then sitting up carefully. Sherlock kept him in his arms and John lay his face against his husband's shoulder, breathing in deeply. Sherlock switched to rubbing his back, his movements slow, keeping John calmer than he would be otherwise, connected with something that wasn't shock or despair.

"You've probably never even been drunk," John muttered into Sherlock's neck. Too much loss of control for the great consulting detective. The one who thrived on his mind never slowing down, never stopping. If anything, methamphetamines would be Sherlock's drug of choice. _Not_ a good choice, John thought.

"I did go to university, you know," Sherlock pointed out. John blinked, then began to chuckle despite himself. He bit his lip, wanting to stop, because there should be nothing funny about this, nothing funny on the day his sister had died, but it was.

"With that French boyfriend of yours?" John asked.

"He wasn't my boyfriend," Sherlock replied.

"But he was French."

"Yes, John, he was French. And yes, with him, once or twice."

John raised his head.

"Yes, I want to get blind stinking drunk."

They did.

John's beer wouldn't cut it, but Sherlock kept a stocked alcohol cabinet for reasons John had never been clear on, but was now grateful for. Expensive, all of it. Scotch, brandy, whiskey, wine, champagne, gin, vodka, everything John would consider basic for a bar. Was he considering hosting a party? The thought made him snicker, and he wondered how much he'd had by that point. Sherlock opened the champagne, ignoring John's protests that it wasn't a good drink for the circumstances.

"It'll get you drunk quickly. More drunk," Sherlock told him.

"Did your French boyfriend teach you that?" John enquired.

Sherlock only rolled his eyes and gave John the entire bottle. At some point, John fished out the cheap gin that he and Tricia drank because it reminded them of their days in the army. Sherlock protested.

"We can't drink that," he said with the indisputable logic of someone who'd passed well beyond having had too much to drink. "Tricia isn't here. She'll be upset. I'll not have her upset. She's frightening when she's upset. She may give me a pointed look. Or make me change Jo's diapers."

"We'll pretend she's here," John said and Sherlock's grey eyes lit up at that. John filled two glasses with far too much and they drank it.

At some point, Sherlock made him drink a glass of water. John complained and Sherlock told him to pretend it was more of the gin. He did, but it didn't taste the same. Tasted too much like water for his liking. Then he realized it was water and collapsed into laughter, and Sherlock complained this was unnecessary, which only made John laugh harder.

Eventually he realized neither of them had eaten since breakfast and it was probably why he could barely stand, let alone think, but the couch was comfortable and he didn't need go anywhere. Let someone else deal with his damn sister.

The thought made him nauseous, really nauseous, and he sat still a moment, then leapt up, racing unsteadily for the bathroom. He barely made it, doubling over the toilet and retching, sweat beading on his forehead. Sherlock was there in an instant, holding his shoulders, swaying slightly but managing to stay upright. John threw up twice, squeezing his eyes shut, but the tears leaked through anyway, tracing the same hot tracks across his face. He hated them, hated the nausea, hated himself, hated his sister.

Sherlock stood when John had finished, picking up a flannel and turning on the faucet successfully on the second try, wetting it and running it over John's face and neck. John relaxed somewhat, trying not to feel dizzy when he closed his eyes. It didn't work.

"Here," Sherlock said, his voice slurred, which John thought was unusual. He pressed a glass to John's lips and this time, the water was more to John's liking. When had he go this? Oh yes, they kept a cup in the bathroom to rinse with after brushing their teeth. Ingenious of them, really.

"I need to go to bed," John said.

"You have to brush your teeth first. I'm not shagging you with that kind of breath."

John closed his eyes, then opened them again when he felt too dizzy.

"I'm too drunk for that," he said. "I should know, I'm –" He screwed his eyes shut, trying to think.

"A doctor?" Sherlock suggested.

"Yes, that," John said.

"Well you won't be this drunk all night," Sherlock pointed out. "And then you'll want to shag me."

John wondered how he knew that. Right now, he didn't feel like doing anything but sleeping. If he could manage to keep himself from feeling dizzy long enough with his eyes closed to fall asleep.

This had been a terrible idea.

At the end of a terrible day.

Yes, he thought dully, it had been a terrible idea. But he didn't care. If it had been anyone else who had died, it wouldn't have mattered that he'd got drunk.

Tomorrow was going to be no better. But he wouldn't want to do this again. Therein lay the difference.

"I want to go to bed," he repeated, wondering why they were still in the bathroom.

Sherlock handed him something and John realized it was his toothbrush, with a dab of toothpaste. Rather a lot, actually, as though Sherlock had judged the amount poorly. John didn't care, he scrubbed his teeth then rinsed his mouth again with some blessedly cool water.

Sherlock steered them back down the hall, and John was absurdly grateful they didn't use the upstairs bedroom. He was certain he'd have fallen and broken his neck. The thought sobered him somewhat and he tried not to dwell on it. One death was too much for one day.

Sherlock undressed him, and John enjoyed the sensation despite the fact that it was difficult to stand up.

"We're both too drunk," Sherlock reminded him. "Right now."

John just grunted, crawling into bed. Sherlock was beside him a moment later and John curled up against him, grateful for the warmth under the duvet. He closed his eyes and buried his face in Sherlock's chest. Sherlock held him, stroking his hair, when John began to cry again, against his will, his body shuddering, unable to shake the tight new pain that coiled in his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

John opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn't.

He screwed them shut against the searing light from around the edges of the drapes and groaned, the sound reverberating painfully in his ears, leaving burning trails through his brain. Rolling over, he buried his face in one of his pillows, dragging another one over his head, groaning again. Movement next to him on the bed made him hurt. Parts of his body flashed with pain, not his left shoulder, which was odd, but his back, his right shoulder, his neck.

He wondered if he were going to throw up.

"Don't be so loud," he whispered to Sherlock.

"I'm not saying anything," Sherlock whispered back. Why didn't Sherlock's voice sound as bad as John felt? John rolled back over, slitting his eyes open – they felt dry and raw, doubly dehydrated from the alcohol and the crying.

Harry was dead.

A new but uncomfortably familiar numb feeling settled into his stomach. His brain unkindly replayed their last conversation for him, repeating it on a loop until he screwed his eyes shut again, wincing at the pain it caused in his head, but needing the sounds to stop.

"You're being too loud with your eyes," John replied. He managed to open his eyes again and look at Sherlock, who was watching him both curiously and carefully. "Argh," John said. "And your eyes are too bright. Stop it. And how are you not hung over?"

"I'm hung over," Sherlock said.

John managed to stare at him without opening his eyes fully. That was hung over for Sherlock? He looked fine. No, wait. He had circles under his eyes, he was paler than normal and he looked like he had a headache. John had no idea how anyone could look like they had a headache, but trying to figure that out only made his own headache worse.

He curled onto his side, burying his face in the mattress, and Sherlock curled around him, stroking his hair. John wanted to say not to touch him, but didn't have the energy and besides, he really didn't want that. He wanted the sunlight to go away, though. What was it thinking, shining today? Didn't it know Harry was dead and he was more hung over than he had ever been in his life?

At least he still had a life, his brain chimed in.

_Shut up, shut up,_ he told himself, feeling ill. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, who hissed gently but didn't pull back. John slitted his eyes open again. Something was wrong with the way Sherlock looked. John turned his head slightly, waiting for his vision to clear of the sudden onslaught of blue spots, then frowned, very carefully, so as not to encourage his headache.

"What happened to your wrists?" he whispered. His voice still sounded too loud.

Sherlock had blue and purple marks on his wrists, as if they'd been held too tightly.

"You happened to my wrists," Sherlock replied.

John blinked, turning his gaze back, then noticed what was wrong – Sherlock had bruises on his neck, shoulders and chest. John glanced down. Also on his hips, smaller ones that looked like finger impressions.

"Oh," John muttered, closing his eyes again. He had a vague memory of Sherlock's fingers digging into his back, Sherlock's teeth sinking into his shoulder. Of gasps and shuddered moans and not-so-soft cries.

It helped explain why he hurt in odd places, but it was secondary pain to the remnants of the alcohol. He closed his eyes again, willing it all away.

It didn't work.

John groaned when Sherlock got up, the mattress shifting. It sent a flash of pain through his head, down his spine, and he curled up tighter on himself, wishing he were dead.

_No_, he told himself sharply. _Not that._

A moment later, Sherlock came back with a glass of water and helped John sit up long enough to drink it. John downed it fast, and Sherlock got him another one. Vaguely, John was aware that this must be difficult, if Sherlock was hung over as well, but his husband didn't complain, although he was moving stiffly. Whether that was the bruises or the booze or both, John couldn't tell.

"Try going back to sleep awhile," Sherlock said.

"Okay," John muttered, reaching out vaguely. Sherlock shifted back into bed and John draped himself across his husband's body, pulling the duvet up to his own eyes. Sherlock shifted it, and the sound of cloth scraping against cloth made John groan again. Sherlock stroked John's hair very gently and John drifted back to sleep despite the headache and the general pain that seemed to have taken up residence in his body.

When he awoke a second time, his eyeballs felt less like they were being rasped with sandpaper and his headache had abated enough that he could handle having his eyes open with the faint light from around the drapes without feeling like his brain was on fire.

He managed to raise his head, moving slowly, so it didn't feel like his skull had been peeled back and his brain was going to fall out. Sherlock had fallen back asleep as well, on his back, his head lolled to the left a little, one hand on John's upper back. John could see the vivid mark on Sherlock's neck just above his collarbone, and another one behind his left ear.

They must have had fun, John thought absently. He wished he remembered better.

Then he wished he didn't remember the day before, at all.

He dropped his head back down, eyes closed, face pressed against Sherlock's stomach. A moment later, Sherlock's hand was gently stroking his back, fingertips running up and down John's skin. They stayed like that for a few minutes, John focusing on the sensation to help him not focus on anything else.

"All right," he murmured finally. "I need to go to the bathroom."

And maybe have something to eat. He thought he could be as adventurous as some dry toast. It had been over twenty-four hours since he'd eaten anything, and he had ingested more alcohol than he had in years. He thought the last time he'd drank that much had been in the army, long before he'd been shot, but he wasn't even sure.

He dragged himself out of bed, not bothering to look for anything to wear, and padded into the bathroom, leaning against the counter over the sink, half hoping he'd throw up, half not. He was fairly certain he'd thrown up the night before, but couldn't quite remember. A lot of it was hazy. What had they drunk? Pretty much everything, he suspected. No caution about mixing alcohols last night.

When he determined he wasn't going to throw up, he turned on the faucet and splashed his face with water in the semi-darkness, having not turned on the light. John let the water run lightly, the sound actually soothing, not too loud for his head. He could hear Sherlock moving about the flat and wished the man would be quieter. He was probably not even being loud, but John felt like almost anything was unreasonable right now.

Finally, he turned the light on, wincing, and looked at himself. Then wished he hadn't bothered. He looked like hell. John sighed, checking his own bruises. He took a flannel and washed the bite mark on his shoulder carefully, then put some antibiotic ointment on it, just in case. He almost laughed when he thought Sherlock had had so much alcohol that his mouth had probably been sterilized. But laughing made his head ring and he swallowed on it. John twisted so he could see his back, dotted in bright, small bruises. The sight made him remember Sherlock's moans against his ear, his breath hot, pleading John's name between gasps. The memory made him shudder, both from desire and discomfort – he was in far too much pain right now for that to seem enjoyable, but it had been, last night.

He splashed more water on his face and eyed the shower, but he didn't think he could stand for long enough right now, nor deal with the noise of the water. John clicked off the light and went back into the bedroom, sinking gratefully back down onto the bed. He lay down and closed his eyes, not at all intending to sleep, but when he opened them again, it was just over an hour later. His headache had receded even more, not gone by any means, but somewhat more tolerable. He lay still in the dimness for a few minutes, just grateful that there was no noise from the rest of the flat, until he heard Sherlock's voice from the livingroom.

It sounded as though he were on the phone, keeping his voice low.

"Yes, I understand," John heard. Then a pause. "All right. Yes. Yes." Another pause, this one longer. "Thank you for calling."

The conversation ended and John hauled himself up, finding a pair of boxers and sweats, then dragging a t-shirt from drawer, pulling it on. The movement made his body flash with pain again and he had to sit still for a minute after he'd finished dressing, waiting for everything to reorient itself and come back into focus.

Then he got up, with considerable reluctance, and went into the livingroom. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, staring vaguely at the window, wrapped in John's old bathrobe. This caused John immediate concern – Sherlock never sat still and stared unless something was the matter.

"Sherlock?" John asked, making his way slowly over to the couch and sinking down. "What is it?"

Sherlock gave him a wan smile that looked entirely faked to John and lifted his phone.

"Lestrade confirming that I need to bring you in later."

John stared at Sherlock. He was lying. John was impressed he was able to tell this – although he'd become much better at reading Sherlock in the three years they'd been together as partners, he was nowhere near at his peak right now. But neither was Sherlock, which may explain it.

"What was it really about?" John asked wearily. "You'd not have thanked him for calling if he just wanted me to come in."

Sherlock hesitated.

"Nothing important," he replied. John frowned.

"Sherlock," he said with a warning tone in his voice. "What was it? If it wasn't important, he wouldn't have called, not today."

Sherlock fiddled with his phone, looking away, and John felt a dull apprehension settle into his stomach.

"Please just tell me," he whispered. He had an inkling already, but maybe he was wrong, maybe Sherlock wouldn't tell him what he didn't want to hear. Maybe Lestrade really had just been calling to get Sherlock to bring John down to the Yard. John clung to that, even though he knew it was useless.

"The two people in the first car died overnight," Sherlock said quietly, meeting John's gaze again. John was grateful for that in a detached way – he couldn't have handled it if Sherlock hadn't been able to meet his eyes. It would have made it too much of a blow.

It was bad enough as it was.

John leaned forward, dropping his head between his knees, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, not caring that the pressure made his head want to explode, made brilliant blue and yellow dots dance behind his eyelids. Sherlock shifted, pulling John into his arms, holding him tightly.

"Who were they?" John managed.

"John-"

"Who were they, Sherlock? I need to know."

There was a pause, and John thought he wouldn't get his answer.

"A twenty-eight-year old woman and her two-year old daughter," Sherlock finally replied.

John made it to the kitchen in time to throw up in the sink. The effort made him dizzy, which made him throw up a second time. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's back, the other hand gripping John's right upper arm, keeping him on his feet. John stayed bent over the sink, breathing hard, then rinsed his mouth, everything feeling sore.

He did not want to cry again.

It didn't seem to matter.

He wished Harry had survived, so he could properly never speak to her again. Sherlock pulled him against his chest and John clung to him hard, not caring if it hurt his husband, or if Sherlock's grip hurt him. He could barely feel it.

The effort finally drained him, so that he leaned against Sherlock, feeling hollow and numb again, wondering why any of this mattered, wondering why he should care. John let out a shaky sigh and Sherlock pressed his lips to his forehead, murmuring something.

Sherlock settled him back on the couch, tucking his paramedic's blanket around him. John was touched; Sherlock only did this on rare occasions, not often feeling inclined to share his blanket. John curled onto his side, tucking one hand beneath his head, and closed his eyes. Sherlock went back into the kitchen and made them toast and tea. John sat up when he returned, eating mechanically, barely tasting the tea, which was too sweet, but he didn't care. It made him feel better to have something hot in his stomach, even if it wasn't very filling. It was better than nothing. Better than all the alcohol he'd ingested the previous night.

"What about the other person?" he asked after awhile, fiddling vaguely with his crusts, which seemed to take too much effort to eat.

"Still in the ICU," Sherlock said. He was sitting on the other end of the couch, John's feet propped on his legs. John nodded but didn't ask for any more information. He didn't want any more. It was exhausting enough to consider what had to be done that day; he needed to get ahold of his mother, of Clara, and go down to the Yard to give his statement to the police. Thinking about all of it made him tired, so he put his empty tea mug on the coffee table and curled up under the blanket again, closing his eyes in defence against reality and going back to sleep.

* * *

It would be nice, Greg Lestrade considered, to be able to say he did not often see people looking as rough as John Watson did that afternoon, but this was not the case. He saw it so often that he was not in the least surprised to see the doctor with pale skin, dark circles under his eyes, which were duller than normal, looking as though he hadn't slept, or had slept too much. Lestrade kept his thoughts carefully from that last consideration, because Sherlock hadn't removed his scarf, but Lestrade could see faint bruising around the consulting detective's wrists that had not been there the day before. As glad as he was that Sherlock had – rather surprisingly – fallen in love with John, he didn't care to think about the details of their personal life. He knew it was a source of office gossip but kept himself well out of it. Trying to quell the talk wouldn't work, but he had no interest in the intimate lives of other people. Too often he had to delve into those details for a case, so he was more than happy to stay out of it for people who knew who weren't subject to any of his investigations.

He had managed to convince Carol Watson not to immediately ring her son yesterday. Lestrade hadn't enjoyed explaining to her why, that John had been on the phone with Harriet when she'd crashed and had been in shock. Judging by the way John looked, he still was, at least somewhat. Based on his appearance, Sherlock had also told him that two of the victims had died. Lestrade had no idea how that must feel, to lose one's sister and then to learn she was responsible for two deaths. Sherlock's grey eyes were more alert than John's brown ones, but unhappy, and Lestrade could see quite plainly that the younger man was displeased with the situation, with being at the Yard, with having had to tell John about the deaths, with the whole thing. He was holding John's hand, the doctor's fingers curled around Sherlock's tightly, so that John's knuckles were almost white.

Lestrade was not used to seeing Sherlock act like a husband, even after all this time. He still expected the consulting detective to compartmentalize his whole life, to be on the job when he was on the job, to treat John with nothing but professionalism on a case or at the Yard. But Sherlock didn't meet this expectation, and Lestrade wondered why he persisted in trying to believe it anyway. Sherlock had always been attached to John, since the first day, and Lestrade could remember his reaction at The Pool, that hesitation, the moment of terror, that he might lose something he cared for.

But now, it was as if being with John was so normal to Sherlock that he didn't consider any other possibility. Of course he didn't, Lestrade told himself. It was just still so strange, this detached, impersonal man being so connected to someone else. If Lestrade hadn't seen it happen, he probably wouldn't believe it. Some days, he wasn't sure he did.

He took John's statement, the doctor speaking quietly and without inflection, hiding pain behind a level voice and dull eyes. Lestrade went over it a few time, getting John to clarify a few things, noting that Sherlock's eyes flashed when he did this. Protectiveness from Sherlock Holmes. Who would have known? But Sherlock bit his tongue, letting Lestrade do his job, for once. When he was finished, he had John sign the statement, which the doctor did without reading over, a clear indication of how exhausted he was. Lestrade let them leave then, hoping that John would visit his mother, or at least call, and wondering what would become of Harriet's estate, such as it was. John didn't seem like he could be in charge of anything at the moment, but neither had Carol the previous day. These things were never easy, though, and it was always hard for someone to have to shoulder the responsibility and take action.

He took a break, wishing he could go out and have a cigarette. Not a common craving for him anymore, but when things were really bad, he wanted the familiarity, the calming action of inhaling deeply. He tried a few deep breaths on his own, without a cigarette, which helped but wasn't the same. Then he went back to work, focusing on the case, which was still problematic.

A little under two hours later, he hung up his phone after a brief call and stared at it blankly, with dismay. Now he'd have to call Sherlock again and tell him that the third crash victim had just died. He wondered how long he could put it off. If he just waited until morning, John could sleep tonight, maybe. If he was able to sleep. Lestrade closed his eyes, steeling himself. Both of them would be angry if he delayed, as much as he wanted to. Better to get it out of the way now.

With a sigh, his hand moving almost against his will, he reached for the phone again and dialled Sherlock's number, half hoping his mobile would be off and he wouldn't get a response, not at all surprised that this turned out not to be the case.


	5. Chapter 5

"I know what you want me to say, Sherlock. But this isn't a case."

"I know this isn't a case," Sherlock replied sharply.

"I mean you can't solve this," Tricia said, shaking her head, tapping her takeaway coffee cup absently with her fingers, keeping it out of Josephine's reach out of habit. "You want me to tell you that there's something, one thing, you can do. I can't. Because there isn't."

She gave him a level look, her blue eyes patient and compassionate, which Sherlock found mildly annoying. He didn't want her to be understanding. He wanted her to give him some answers.

In his lap, Josephine managed to push herself to her feet and made a grab for his hair. Without thinking, Sherlock caught her hand and kept it from snagging his curls, but this didn't stop her from trying. He lifted her to the table so she was eye to eye with him and met her gaze, shaking his head, arching an eyebrow. She grinned at him, gurgling, and he sat her back down to face her mother, who pushed a plushy toy toward her. Josephine grabbed it and stuck it in her mouth, gnawing on it happily.

John had asked him to go grocery shopping, which Sherlock generally considered only something he would do under duress, or when he really needed to make something up to John, but he'd agreed. Reluctantly, because he didn't want to leave John alone right now. The previous day had been made worse by Lestrade's second phone call, and John had met up with his mother at his aunt's. Carol was staying with her sister, Evelyn, and John had gone over, taking Sherlock with him. It wasn't a visit Sherlock relished; he didn't know John's mother well because she and John weren't exceptionally close, and he had never met John's aunt. Given the circumstances, it was not a pleasant meeting, although at least Carol hadn't been upset with John for not having called her, for getting the police to do it. Still, John had come home even more exhausted than he'd left and had simply crawled into bed and fallen asleep without a word. That morning, he looked as though he were still hung over from the previous morning and hadn't got out of bed until almost noon.

Sherlock was concerned about depression, and spent the morning researching it online, as well as the general stages of bereavement. He could not decide if he needed to actually be worried or not. At least John was eating more again, even if he wasn't doing it very enthusiastically. Was it a good sign that he'd asked Sherlock to go get some food? Sherlock couldn't imagine John was in the mood for cooking, but he'd drawn up a short list for Sherlock to take to the shops.

Upon leaving the flat, Sherlock had rung Tricia and asked her to meet him. He needed someone else who knew John well. She'd brought Josephine out and joined him, trading the baby for the list, an exchange that Sherlock was more than happy to make. Josephine was far more interesting that selecting groceries, so he carried her about while Tricia took charge of the shopping, although Sherlock contributed by selecting some cookies he knew John would like, and some chocolate. At very least, the man should have something unhealthy he'd enjoy.

Several people had glanced at them while shopping, but none of them seemed to be Mycroft's men or women. Sherlock felt certain his brother was keeping a closer eye on him now, since Mycroft undoubtedly knew what had happened and would be concerned in his unbelievably overbearing and pretentious way. Sherlock ignored the stares for the most part, but had been annoyed when a middle-aged woman had noted the difference between his wedding ring and Tricia's and had given him a critical look. Granted, he and Tricia were too dissimilar in height and colouring to be siblings, but their body language was all wrong for two people carrying on an affair. And what kind of adulterers went out food shopping with a child? Really, people had no concept of how to judge anything. If it weren't for John's situation, he would have despaired of it.

Tricia hadn't seemed to notice.

So he'd returned the woman's glare and then refocused his attention on Josephine, who had been trying to get at his hair again. She was fascinated with his hair. But then, he did have quite good hair, so he couldn't really blame her.

Afterwards, they had gone for coffee at a nearby café so Sherlock could pick Tricia's brain. She had gone through the death of her brother had his own hand as a teenager, so she knew what it was like to lose a family member suddenly and unexpectedly.

"There must be something I can do," Sherlock said reasonably, warding Josephine's hand away from his coffee, then from the sugar container on the table. She fussed and he put a finger to her lips to hush her without looking down at her, then winced when she grabbed it and bit it, using her two new and very sharp teeth to do so. He pulled his hand away and slid the toy she'd dropped on the table back in front of her.

"Yes," Tricia said, producing another toy for her daughter from her ever-present diaper bag. "There is. You're doing it."

"I'm not doing anything," Sherlock contradicted. Tricia raised an eyebrow at him, giving him a look. Sherlock scowled at her; he'd never known anyone with such pointed looks before. And he knew Mycroft.

"You're doing exactly what John needs you to do right now," she replied. "You're taking care of things, of him. He doesn't need any grand gestures or quick fixes. He needs you. He needs his family and his friends. Look, when Jer died, that's what got me through. My parents, my friends. It doesn't change overnight, or even fast, Sherlock. It hurts. I still miss him almost every day. And the only person he killed was himself. Harry took three people with her. This isn't going to be easy. You just have to be patient."

"I am not particularly good at patient," Sherlock said.

"Now would be a good time to practice," Tricia replied. "Let him go through this. He needs to. And there's no way around it."

Sherlock frowned. He did not like hearing that.

"I don't like seeing him like this either," Tricia said. "But he'll get through it with you. With us. All right?"

Reluctantly, he agreed. Tricia was usually good at noting these sorts of things, and she did have expertise in losing a sibling that Sherlock did not have. At least, not in the same way. He wished Mycroft would leave his life for good, but was uncertain if he actually wanted Mycroft dead. He just wanted the complication that was his meddling – and dangerous – elder brother to leave him alone.

"Yes, all right," Sherlock sighed.

Tricia gave him another look.

"You don't have to like it. You _shouldn't_ like it. But you have to do it."

What was she, his mother? Nevermind that he'd wanted her advice.

"I'll come over this evening," she promised. "Henry had some time off after Italy, and he'll want to spend some time with Jo."

"Good," Sherlock agreed, passing Josephine back to her mother. He picked up his shopping bags as Tricia got her daughter bundled up again, Josephine making it a longer process by trying unsuccessfully to grab everything in sight.

"I'll text before I come by," Tricia said as they stepped into the cool March air. Sherlock agreed and she leaned up to give him a peck on the cheek. "Take care of John, all right? I'll see you later."

Sherlock bid her good-bye and leaned down to kiss Josephine, who gave him a baby kiss in return, mouth open, licking his face. He grimaced, but not seriously, wiping her baby slobber from his lips. Tricia waved her daughter's tiny hand at him and they parted ways, Sherlock walking back quickly to the flat, because it had been about an hour and a half since he'd left and he really didn't want John alone much longer. He was displeased by Tricia's advice, but suspected she was probably right. She had a tendency to be right when it came to these sorts of things. Sherlock wished this were a case, easily solved, so they could move onto the next thing. What would it be like, he wondered, if they'd been called out to something like this, if neither of them had known Harry?

But no, it never would have been a case. Too straightforward. If what it was doing to John could actually be considered straightforward.

He knew John wasn't home the moment he stepped inside the old house, even before he climbed the stairs. There was no noise from above; not that he expected John to be moving about, since Sherlock had left him on the couch, watching one of his American crime dramas. It was a mark of how concerned Sherlock was that he actually had suggested that John do this. But he was glad he was out of the flat while John watched these shows.

He may have fallen asleep again – he'd been sleeping sporadically, which was not normal for him, but something about the flat just felt unoccupied. Sherlock pulled out his phone on the way up the stairs.

_Where are you? SH_, he sent.

_Harry's flat_, John texted back several seconds later.

"Blast," Sherlock muttered. It had been a blessing of sorts that Harry had a will, because it was a legal nightmare in England to die without one, since her assets were – surprisingly – over five thousand pounds. Unfortunately, she'd seen fit to change it in the intervening years since she'd left Clara, and made John the executor. Sherlock felt this was unfair and extremely selfish, since John hadn't known, and it was much more than he needed right now.

It meant he had to deal with cleaning out her whole flat, getting it ready to go back on the rental market. Sherlock considered that John really shouldn't be over there right now, it would only make him feel worse, which would make him lose more sleep and become more exhausted. Wasn't he already bad enough, Sherlock wondered darkly. Even now, Harry was managing to be self-centred.

Sherlock put the food in the kitchen, remembering to store the milk in the fridge, then clattered down the stairs again, heading for the nearest tube station.

* * *

John wasn't at all surprised when the buzzer sounded and it was Sherlock he admitted to the building. He unlocked the flat door and went back to sitting on the floor in front of the couch, trying to sort through some of Harry's belongings.

It was so daunting. Her flat was tiny but John felt like it could have been a mansion. He couldn't really conceive of where he needed to begin. He didn't even want to do it. Why had she made him executor? At least he was also the beneficiary. She must have done this when she'd still been sober, and not angry at him for whatever reasons alcohol could come up with. But there was so much to deal with; everything needed to be gone through and given away or kept – although John didn't think she had much he wanted to keep, except maybe some old photos – and he needed to sell or donate the furniture, as well as clean the flat after everything had been moved out. Just thinking about it made him weary, made his old shoulder wound ache. He glanced around before Sherlock stepped inside, then looked up to meet his husband's eyes.

John expected a reprimand, and it was clearly visible in Sherlock's grey eyes, but his husband said nothing, crossing the room and sitting down on the couch behind John, so that John was effectively resting between Sherlock's knees. Sherlock pulled off his gloves and ran a hand into John's hair, and John suddenly realized how Sherlock felt when he did this. He leaned his head back on Sherlock's knee and closed his eyes, just feeling drained.

There was too much to do. The funeral was in three days, and John had spent some of the early afternoon arranging that, before sending Sherlock out for groceries. He had left most of the planning up to the funeral home, not really caring what the service was like, nor what kind of coffin they got, nor flowers. They were taking care of contacting Harry's friends as well. John had provided them with her address book, feeling slightly guilty that he didn't know any of these people. He'd called Clara as well, but she told him she wasn't interested and he couldn't blame her – Harry had treated her badly toward the end. Well, a great deal of the time, actually. He wondered if she'd attend the funeral. Then he didn't care.

His mother wanted him to deliver the eulogy, and John hadn't had the heart or strength to argue. He could tell Sherlock wanted to – his husband was tetchy and protective right now – but when he himself didn't say anything, Sherlock held his tongue. Part of John wished Sherlock had raised a fuss; it may have got him out of doing it. He had no idea what he was going to say. What did one say about a sister who had killed three people because she'd climbed behind the wheel of a car while drunk out of her mind?

And there was the flat, and everything in it.

He felt exhausted. John wished he hadn't come over, wished they were back in their own flat, which was home and safe. He wanted to curl up with Sherlock, but did not want to do this in Harry's empty flat, surrounded by all of her things.

"I don't think I can do this," he sighed, opening his eyes.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his fingers still running through John's hair. John gestured vaguely at everything around him.

"All of this. It's too much work."

Sherlock considered him a moment, then stood, pulling John up and settling him onto the couch. He shucked his coat and fished around for a pad of paper and pen, John watching him with mild curiosity. Finding these, he settled back onto the couch, lifting John's feet so they rested on his knee and pulled out his phone, searching for something, jotting down information on the notepad.

Then he made three calls, the first to a storage facility where he rented a small unit under John's name, but giving them his own credit card information. The second was to a moving company, where he arranged to have movers come in and pack up the apartment and move all of Harry's possessions to the storage unit. This was arranged for the following week, and Sherlock gave the company both his contact information and John's and scheduled a time at which they would meet the movers at the flat. Then he called a cleaning service and arranged to have them come the day after the movers had cleared everything out, again giving them the contact information and setting up a meeting time.

John watched in disbelief.

When Sherlock hung up, he pocketed his phone again, meeting John's gaze. John felt as though he must look stunned, like a deer in headlights, but Sherlock stood, shifting John's feet out of the way easily.

"Where did she keep her garbage bags?" he asked.

"Ah, try under the sink," John replied, wondering what he was getting up to. Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen and John could hear him opening cupboards, then the rattle of plastic being shaken open. Then the clink of glass. He got up and moved toward the kitchen to find Sherlock opening every cupboard there was, the fridge, the freezer, all of the drawers, pulling out the bottles Harry had hidden about, or just stored in plain sight, dumping them into the garbage bag, full, empty, and everything in between. When he judged the bag was getting too heavy, he tied it off and got a new one, moving methodically through the flat, finding hiding places John never would have considered – which concerned him somewhat, but not really, since he knew Sherlock too well – and filling second bag. When he finished, he got Harry's keys off of John and disappeared outside to bin the bags.

"I thought you may not want the movers to pack those," he commented, coming back in.

John crossed the room and kissed him hard. Sherlock was surprised a moment, then relaxed, hands resting on John's hips, pulling him closer.

"All things considered," Sherlock said, pulling away after a moment. "I'd rather not do this here." He rested a hand on the back of John's neck, fingers massaging lightly. "Let's go home, John. You can sort this when you're ready."

John kissed him again, lightly, and nodded.

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

"You're welcome," Sherlock replied. John fetched the small bag of things he'd set aside to take, a couple of small photo albums and some books, then shouldered his jacket back on. He locked up Harry's apartment, feeling lighter knowing things were taken care of here, that he didn't have to worry about it or do anything or deal with it any time soon. It felt good. Like a weight was off his shoulders. Considering how many other weights he was carrying, it was a welcome relief.

Sherlock took John's hand as they left the building, lacing his fingers through his husband's, and they headed for the tube and back to Baker Street.


	6. Chapter 6

The morning of the funeral, John sat on his bed, still in his pyjamas, hands clasped loosely between his knees, staring blankly at the suit that hung from the closet door. Sherlock was already up and dressed in a respectable suit of his own, but John couldn't find the energy or the desire to get up. He had been sitting there for at least ten minutes, just staring. Sherlock had made them breakfast before changing into his suit, which John had eaten, but hadn't tasted. He didn't like that; even though Sherlock had been in charge of breakfast for years now, John still appreciated that he did it, because he knew Sherlock's attitude towards regular meal schedules, and how much of a change this was.

He laced his fingers together, staring blankly at the suit. After a few minutes, he realized his face and eyes felt hot and reached up to wipe tears away. How could he still be able to cry? He felt as though he should have drained himself dry by now. He hated that Harry could make him cry, and that it happened without warning. The previous day, he'd been in the shower and had suddenly needed to lean against the wall, letting the water stream over him, unable to do anything else. Sherlock had got him out and wrapped him in his old bathrobe, holding him until he ran out of tears or energy.

He felt like Sherlock was always holding him now. This was nice, although John could have done without the reasons for it. He'd got to the point where it was hard to imagine not having Sherlock around, but they'd both have to go back to work eventually, and Sherlock wouldn't be able to stay away from St. Bart's or even his own experiments at home much longer. John felt almost guilty for needing so much attention, then angry at himself for feeling guilty. Then livid at Harry for doing this to him in the first place. He'd been on this emotional rollercoaster for days now and was exhausted, wanting it to stop, just wanting to feel normal again. Not numb, not enraged. Swinging between the two was too demanding, leaving him feeling wrung out and sapped all of the time.

Sherlock came in with a tea and handed it off to him. John took it, looking at it vaguely for a moment, then sipped it. Sherlock had even managed to get the amount of sugar right. _He must really be concerned_, John thought. He was even tolerating John's favourite American crime shows right now, and had actually managed to sit through one, curled up with John on the couch, without any cutting criticism.

John wasn't sure what to think about that. How much effort had that taken? Sherlock hated those shows and was always more than happy to point out their many inconsistencies and errors. As if Doctor Who was a paragon of realism, John thought with a faint inward smirk.

"I don't know if I can do this," he said quietly, still staring down at his tea. Sherlock settled down on the bed next to him, one long leg drawn up, his foot tucked under his knee.

"You don't have to," he said simply.

John was silent for a moment, then gave a small chuckle. No one else would ever have granted him that kind of permission. No one else but Sherlock would absolve him of this responsibility if John wanted him to, and he was more than grateful. Anyone else would impress on him the fact that Harry had been his sister, that this was the last chance he'd have to say good-bye to her. As if she could hear him, anymore.

"Thank you," John said, leaning over and Sherlock wrapped an arm around his shoulders. John settled his head against Sherlock's right shoulder, nuzzling his neck gently with his nose. Sherlock turned his head to press his lips against John's forehead momentarily. They stayed like that a few minutes, then John sighed.

"I'm going to do it anyway," he said.

"I know," Sherlock replied.

He handed off his tea mug to his husband and stood, dressing slowly. He still felt somewhat hung over, even after four days, although he knew this wasn't really the case. Dressing was such an effort and, in the end, Sherlock put the mug aside and stood to help him. John relented, feeling like a child as Sherlock did up his shirt buttons, knotted his tie with practiced efficiency, then helped him into the suit jacket, adjusting its fit and doing up those buttons as well.

"You look good," he said, eyeing John critically.

"I feel like crap," John replied. Sherlock kissed him lightly and John kissed back, wondering if they could just stay home instead. The prospect of doing that was so much more appealing than what lay in front of him.

Instead, they got their coats and shoes and left the flat when Tricia rang up. She was waiting for them outside in a hired car, and John was glad it was her, not anyone else. He was going to have to deal with a lot of family at the funeral. She was dressed in a black skirt suit and black heels, a black scarf drawn about her shoulders against the faint March chill. She hugged him when he came out the door, and John hugged back, closing his eyes, glad for the embrace. He could do this, with Sherlock and Tricia. She'd left Josephine at home with Henry, not wanting the baby to disrupt the service.

They travelled to the funeral home together, where the service would be held. John had to be there early enough to deal with the details, since Harry had left him in charge of bloody everything, but his mother and aunt were there when they arrived. They hugged him, then Tricia and Sherlock, John's husband looking distinctly uncomfortable but acquiescing. Tricia handled it with more equanimity, even though she'd actually never met John's mother before. It wasn't as though family visiting time was common in Afghanistan.

The funeral home walked him through the final details that needed to be taken care of, all professionalism and efficiency, and John was glad there were people whose job it was to take care of this sort of thing. He met the minister who would be conducting the short service; Harry had been far more religious than John had ever been, and his service in Afghanistan and then his life with Sherlock had pretty much eroded away whatever he'd had left anyway.

People began arriving, aunts and uncles and cousins he hadn't seen in years, and he had to greet them all, as if he cared, as if he wanted to. He didn't introduce Sherlock or Tricia, but saw more than one person note the matching wedding rings he and Sherlock wore, and more than one judgmental expression. John didn't care a whit; let others think what they wanted, their lives were more limited for it. Most them didn't seem bothered or even to notice, though. They all hugged him, and his mother, and Sherlock, and Tricia, even though it was clear they didn't know who Tricia was for the most part. She was there, and that was all John cared about. He'd have to do something quite nice for Sherlock, he considered, since his husband was taking all of this hugging from strangers with remarkable poise. Although John did note Tricia elbow Sherlock once, discreetly, in the ribs.

Harry's friends he didn't know arrived, although some of them introduced themselves as members of her AA group. Former AA group, John supposed. He wondered how long since she'd been to a meeting before she died. One of them, her sponsor, took John aside and apologized quietly, his eyes looking old. John accepted it, but didn't blame him – it was Harry's decision, not anyone else's. Still, that kind of responsibility, it must have been heart wrenching. Especially the way Harry had died.

Clara did not come, and John was not all surprised.

Eventually, everyone settled, the family in the first row and John sat Tricia with them without comment. He could see some of the extended family members he hadn't seen in awhile figuring out who Sherlock was at that point, especially when Sherlock took John's hand and held it tightly, but Tricia's presence remained unexplained. John didn't care. He had enough to worry about.

He had opted for a closed-casket service, because he didn't need to see Harry again, nor did anyone else need to see her looking the way she had the last time John had seen her. He knew they'd have cleaned her up, but as a doctor, he suspected it wouldn't have been enough. There was nothing they could do. He wished she'd asked to be cremated instead of buried, it would have saved a lot of trouble, and expense. But she hadn't.

He noted absently that the funeral home had gone with white and violet flowers. John had no idea what they were, nor why they'd been chosen. When it came to it, he had no idea what Harry's favourite flowers had been, nor her favourite colours. He felt almost as though he was at a stranger's funeral, but that stranger had been his sister.

He wished there were more people there that he knew, although he wasn't certain why, it was not as though they could do anything. The day after Harry's death, Sherlock had updated John's blog for him, making it clear that John wasn't the one writing, and giving a short write-up on what had happened. John hadn't checked his blog at all, even to read the messages of support and sympathy he was certain were there. He felt vaguely as though he were dropping the ball on the situation, on his friends back in Afghanistan and those who had returned and were spread out across the UK, but didn't have the energy to properly care. When Sherlock had been in the hospital, he'd posted every update he could, and had read the comments ravenously, needing some link to the rest of the world, desperate for the contact and support. It didn't seem to matter this time.

The minister's short service was over far too soon for John's liking. He wondered why he'd agreed to do the eulogy and wished he could take it back. Surely there was someone here who knew her better, who could say something good about her? But who? Her former AA friends, to whom she was a reminder of what could happen under the worst possible circumstances? Her drunk friends, who couldn't be trusted to be sober? Not their mother, for whom this was too hard. The only other person would have been Clara, had Harry not treated her badly and left her.

John stood up, walking to the podium, still feeling numb. He glanced over the crowd, settling his eyes momentarily on Sherlock and Tricia. Sherlock looked displeased that John was up there – probably he was feeling the same doubts as John. Tricia just gave him a supportive nod. It was all he'd needed.

"Look," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. "I know what I'm meant to say in this situation. I'm supposed to tell you about how wonderful Harry was, how good for a sister she was, all sorts of good things about her, happy memories. I want to do that, but I can't.

"She was an alcoholic. That's the first thing I think about when I think about her. It always will be, I think. Everything she did, everything she was, it was tied up in that. I know she tried, and I can't begin to understand how hard it must have been just to try. But I wish she'd tried harder. I wish I'd tried harder. To get her to go back to treatment. To get on with her better. We never got on, because of her drinking. I loved my sister, because she was my sister, but I never liked her much. I keep thinking, maybe if I'd tried to like her more, this wouldn't have happened. Maybe she could have found more strength, I don't know, maybe been more successful in her recovery.

"The last time we talked, we fought. We used to fight all of the time, when she was drinking. It was good – great, really – when she stopped, when she was in AA. I liked her a lot more when she was sober, and she was really more like a sister then. When my husband was in the hospital, she was there. It's the only time I can remember as an adult when she was supportive. The only time. When she was drinking, she was selfish, she was vindictive, she was petty.

"I know, I know that wasn't really Harry. Not the real Harry. I know it was the alcohol. But after so long, it became hard to distinguish between the two. It gets hard to put up with the disappointment, with the anger, with the resentment, after awhile. It gets hard to care. It gets hard to want to be woken up in the middle of the night to listen to her yelling about some invented injustice, or to worry about what she'd be like if I wanted to go visit her."

He paused, blinking against tears.

"Maybe this makes me selfish. I don't know. Maybe I am. Maybe she was. Maybe there was no way around it, because she was an addict and I'm not, so I can't understand it. I don't know. Sometimes I wonder if it matters. The last decision she ever made killed her, and killed three other people. One of those people was just a little girl, just a baby. That's the only thing I can think of right now. We're sitting here, and somewhere, two other families are doing the same thing, except they're wondering why someone else got to make this choice for them. I don't know if Harry's drinking was a choice. Maybe she really couldn't help it. But that doesn't change what she did. It will always be the last thing she did, the last time I saw her, the last time I spoke to her."

John paused again, rubbing his lips. He could not longer really see the other mourners.

"I was going through her flat the other day and found a copy of the Alcoholic's Anonymous _Big Book. _It was shoved out of sight on her bookshelf and dusty, like she hadn't looked at in awhile. She probably hadn't. She'd been drinking again since just before Christmas, and I doubt she wanted to be reminded of why she shouldn't be.

"But I took it home, and looked at it. She'd underlined several passages, I think when she was sober, trying to find something to keep her going, I guess, to keep her motivated. There was one in particular she'd underlined more darkly, and drawn a little star next to. It said:

'The idea that somehow, someday he will control and enjoy his drinking is the great obsession of every abnormal drinker. The persistence of this illusion is astonishing. Many pursue it into the gates of insanity or death.'

"I think it was right. She did pursue this illusion into death. I wish-" he paused, pinching the bridge of his nose again. "I wish she'd remembered or wanted to look at it before she left her flat the day she died. I wish she'd thought of it before she got into that car. I wish she'd held onto it. Maybe then she'd still be here. Maybe then those three other people would still be here.

"It doesn't matter if we didn't get along, or if I didn't like her, or if she didn't like me. She was my sister. And because of that, I still loved her. I still do love her. I miss her. And I wish, every single second, that she was still here."

John paused again, then shook his head, running out of words. He left the podium and sat back down, grasping Sherlock's hand again, feeling Tricia wind an arm around his shoulder. The minister thanked him, and John managed to nod, noting that the other man actually did look grateful or impressed. How many people were honest at funerals? John suspected not many, not in cases like this. The minister invited anyone else who wanted to speak to do so, and a handful of people did, some of his extended family, who kept it brief, and some of her former AA friends, who touched on the things he had wondered about, the difficulties facing a recovering alcoholic. He barely heard any of it, and was grateful when it all ended. He stood with his mother, aunt, Sherlock and Tricia again, receiving everyone's condolences once more, then finally they were gone. The actual burial was the following day, and John had not planned a reception, thinking it was inappropriate to gather people together, to talk about Harry's life, especially when a large number of them were current or recovering alcoholics and a lot of his family would want at least some wine.

He let Sherlock take him home, change him, and order Chinese food from their favourite place up the block. He didn't feel tired anymore – not tired so he could sleep anyway. He felt drained, but didn't want to sleep anymore. John thought he'd been sleeping for days and was weary of it, wanting to stop feeling this constant exhaustion that even sleep couldn't seem to cure or shake off. He was glad for the Chinese food when it came, because it reminded him of better times, of something he and Sherlock enjoyed doing often, a regular part of their lives. Sherlock offered to let him watch his crime shows but John deferred, asking for Doctor Who instead. This surprised Sherlock, but John insisted, wanting to do something that wasn't about him for once, wanting things to be slightly more normal. It was too confusing to have Sherlock put up with the shows John liked, and easier just to lean up against Sherlock, eat, and vaguely ignore the campy plots of Sherlock's favourite series.

John felt somewhat lighter than he had done in days. He knew it wasn't over, but at least the funeral was and he could relax. He was no longer in charge; Harry's things would be moved out of her flat in a few days and he could leave them in the storage facility as long as he wanted. He could deal with it in his own time. It felt good, knowing that, and knowing Sherlock would help him if he asked, that he didn't have to do it on his own.


	7. Chapter 7

The day after John returned Harry's keys to her former landlord, leaving the flat gleaming, probably cleaner than it had ever been when she'd lived there, he awoke in the morning and did not feel the familiar numbness that had been living in his stomach. He lay still for a few minutes, waiting for it to return, but it didn't. It felt strange, because he felt lighter, more alert, more himself. The room around him felt brighter and airier, too, and he thought he'd slept better, more deeply but with fewer dreams.

He got up and showered, then dressed, emerging into the livingroom to find Sherlock making breakfast. One of his specialities, blueberry pancakes, and even properly sweetened tea. He seemed to be more consistent these days with not overdoing the amount of sugar he put into John's morning beverage, but John suspected it wouldn't last. He'd enjoy it while he could.

John still hadn't returned to work, and they had told him to take as much time as he needed, but he'd have to go back soon despite their offer. They needed him, his patients needed him, and he would need some routine in his life again. Sherlock was running his mad experiments at home again, although he had yet to go back to St. Bart's, and Lestrade hadn't called with any new cases. Despite this, Sherlock had managed to solve the case they'd been working on when Harry died. John didn't know how, but assumed it involved some more hacking into the Metro police's computer system, or just Lestrade's computer. Then he'd probably analyzed their case files and notes for about five seconds before narrowing down a list of suspects. It wouldn't have surprised John if Sherlock had the names of all the dentists in London stored in his brain, for some obscure reason.

When they finished eating, John cleared the dishes into the sink and glanced out the window. It was still early spring, so it was still cool, but the winter rains were mostly behind them, and it appeared to be a nice day already. He glanced back at Sherlock, who had returned his attention to whatever he was currently working on, chewing on his lower lip in concentration.

"Can we go out somewhere?" John asked.

Sherlock looked up quickly, glancing over his shoulder, then turning in his chair.

"Of course," he said and John noted that he seemed somewhat surprised. It was, John realized, the first time he'd wanted to leave the flat since Harry died. Certainly not the first time he'd had to, but he'd always gone reluctantly, to meet some obligation his sister had forced on him. "Where would you like to go?"

"For a walk near the river. Battersea Park, I think."

Sherlock flashed him a grin, standing and kissing him quickly on the lips.

"Certainly," he agreed.

They dressed in light jackets and gloves, and a requisite scarf for Sherlock, then caught the tube as far as they could, taking a bus the rest of the way in. The park was busy, even for the time of day and the time of year, but they ambled along the paths, reaching the Thames eventually, then walking aimlessly for about half an hour in the light breeze and spring sunshine. It was nice, John thought, to be outside, to see so many people enjoying the fine day. Cyclists were everywhere, and children, although thankfully neither group was colliding with each other. Women were in more skirts, less bundled up against the cold, a clear indication that winter was on its way out. Even Sherlock seemed to be enjoying himself, their arms linked, his grey eyes bright and clear.

_Seeing the forest for the trees_, John thought. Not the city for the battlefield. It was so rare to see Sherlock like this, and John loved that his husband only did this for him, was only like this because of John.

He wondered if Sherlock would contact Mycroft now, but thought not. Most people would take the death of a spouse's sibling as incentive to reconnect with their own family. In his own way, Sherlock had done that, once, calling his mother and John had gone up to the upstairs bedroom then, to give him some privacy. He didn't think Sherlock would want anything to do with Mycroft, though, at least not yet. It made John uneasy to think of having Mycroft in his life again, but he also didn't think Sherlock would freeze him out forever. It would take time, and John would accept it, but only on Sherlock's schedule. Mycroft, at least, seemed to realize that any attempt to contact Sherlock or stop by the flat would make things worse. It was probably the first time Mycroft had ever backed off because Sherlock had told him to.

Sherlock would probably dismiss the idea of learning something about his relationship with Mycroft from John's experience with Harry, and John didn't know if he'd be far wrong in doing that. Mycroft was dangerous and powerful. Harry had been an alcoholic. No power, not over herself, in the end.

Maybe it didn't matter, John thought. Certainly, it didn't matter today.

They found a bench and sat down, John bundling his hands into his pockets and Sherlock wrapping an arm around his shoulders. John didn't care if they drew stares, approving or judgmental; he was just happy to be sitting there, in the warm air, watching the river drift past, the grey-brown waters glinting in the sunlight. They sat in silence for a time, then Sherlock kissed John's temple lightly.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly.

John smiled, really smiled, and turned his face, looking up at Sherlock. He leaned up and kissed him softly on the lips, letting the contact linger for a moment, tasting the syrup and the pancakes on Sherlock's breath, feeling the warmth of his lips and his skin.

"I am. At least for now."

He wouldn't be later, he knew, because there was no getting away from the tragedy Harry had caused, nor the pain of her death, not so easily. But it was a start. Tricia promised him it would get better, almost a week ago, back when he could scarcely believe her, nor even really cared if things didn't change. But he felt good now, and he'd take it, so he could remember it when he no longer felt good, and look forward to the next time he felt like this.

He rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder, and his husband pressed his cheek against the top of John's head, his thick, dark hair tickling John's forehead somewhat. John slipped his right hand from his coat pocket and took Sherlock's left one, lacing their fingers together, resting their hands on Sherlock's thigh.

They sat and watched the water flow by for some time, resting against each other without a word, simply enjoying the company and the sunshine.

(**End**)


End file.
